


The Seven Year Scratch

by out_there



Category: Sports Night
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-23
Updated: 2005-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lot changes in seven years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seven Year Scratch

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://mireille719.livejournal.com/profile)[**mireille719**](http://mireille719.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

Dan was so very young when he met Casey. Not young in the way of acne and high school angst -- after all, he was old enough to drink and argue and vote -- but young in the way of idealism, of hope. He was in college with the world at his feet, every class filled with potential. Chance meetings led to dates and every second girl seemed like the love of his life. He toyed with ideas like playdough, flirting with different careers as easily as he changed majors.

There were the figurative dark nights, certainly. Nights when he lay alone in his dorm room, staring at the computer sitting on his desk and remembered sitting in the car while Sam learned to drive. But those nights were the exception, not the rule. There was too much happening for Dan to obsess about all the things he'd left behind.

Back then, there had been more optimism. Not just him: Casey, too. They were young men, out to make their mark on the world. They were going to revolutionize sports reporting, have their names up in lights. Casey was married and was going to start a family. Dan was going to graduate and become a reporter. It was going to be wonderful, incredible, and it was going to start any minute now.

At the time, it wasn't just a possible future, it was The Future. It was going to happen -- no ifs, no buts, no doubts. When they weren't talking about the latest draft pick rumor or Notre Dame's chances this season, he and Casey would sit around, chilled beer bottles in their hands, and plan their future.

When Dan complained that the commentators had no insight, no critical understanding of the sport, Casey replied, "We won't be like that. We'll research our stories."

Back then, Dan was young enough to know everything. "We'll know what we're talking about."

Casey ran a hand through his hair, pushing back the bangs that kept hiding his eyes. "We won't need some guy feeding us lines through an earpiece."

"We're going to do it right," Dan had said, and they'd clanked their bottles together in a toast.

They'd been so certain. That certainty tinges Dan's memories of college, and in retrospect, they both seem so ridiculously young.

***

Somehow, the optimism faded during the early nineties. Like it was produced by one of those dot-com businesses that disappeared overnight, Dan woke up one morning and it wasn't there. Not that the world was all doom and gloom, nothing like that. His apartment in Dallas was just as welcoming as it had ever been, the ratings at Lone Star were just as encouraging, but the world was no longer his oyster. It was his lobster, maybe -- hard-shelled and satisfying, and more than he could ever eat -- but the difference between college and working was recognizing the impossible, understanding your own limits.

Dan did understand his own limits. He knew that he needed to sleep each night to do a good show. He'd tried those all-nighters; tried drinking, flirting and staying up all night with a girl he'd met in a bar. The sun would rise slowly, violet turning pink turning orange with the speed of molasses, and he'd smile at the girl, but he knew had to go home quickly and get some sleep. On his drive home, he'd wonder if this new thing would last for weeks or months, because he'd learned his limitations and given up planning happily-ever-after futures.

He wasn't the only one who changed, and it was reassuring, if not satisfying, to see that Casey hadn't survived the last seven years unscathed. The physical changes were easy to see: Casey no longer wore glasses, no longer seemed embarrassed by compliments. He wore his hair much shorter, so it no longer curled over his collar. He somehow became comfortable wearing suits, but those weren't the changes Dan noticed most. It was the little things, the things that weren't too obvious.

Casey no longer spoke of marriage in glowing terms, no longer waxed poetic about having a family or being a married man. He still beamed every time he spoke of Charlie -- nothing on earth could make Casey love his son any less, and Dan noticed himself comparing Casey to his own father far too often -- but Lisa wasn't mentioned.

Lisa became a specter in Casey's life: everyone knew she was there, but no one talked about her. She was never at the studio, barely ever seen, and most of the time it was easy to forget Casey was even married. It was much easier to think of him as a guy-with-a-son rather than a married-guy-with-a-son, but Dan didn't point that out to anyone.

***

It was a new millennium, a new time, and everything important changed. It still seems impossible to Dan that he'd known Casey for so long before it happened, but Casey had never been a guy to act quickly.

Except when he did. Casey could run with a hunch -- could act on the spur of the moment as well as any guy -- but it always surprised Dan when he did.

Casey let Dana down gently, and the surprise was that he didn't go back on it. It hadn't surprised Dan that the thing with Rebecca hadn't worked out, but the real kicker came ninety days afterwards with a handwritten letter and a white rose waiting on their desk.

He'd found Casey in the editing room, chewing on his pen and planning a voiceover that refused to work. When he opened the door, Casey spun around in his chair, facing him down like a firing squad.

Dan slipped the letter into his pocket. "You waited ninety days?"

Casey was clean-shaven and nervous, and he really didn't look his thirty-something years. "That's what I was taught."

"Dana said it was sixty days," Dan said as he sat down on the dark couch. "I think she's right."

"I was taught ninety," Casey said, leaning back in his chair, "and I stand by that."

"Okay," Dan said, and stood up, and walked out. He walked past the elevators, down the stairs and all the way home. It was only when he got back to his apartment that he called in sick and apologized to Dana. He didn't apologize to Casey until after that night's show, when Casey turned up on his doorstep at one-thirty in the morning.

"I'm sorry," he'd said, letter still in hand. It was written on thick cream-colored paper and still had three clean creases, despite being read so many times.

Casey shrugged, not quite apologetic, but close. "It was a big thing."

"Yeah."

"Did I do it badly?"

Dan had looked down, had taken in Casey's old, ratty sneakers, scuffed around the toes but so comfortable Casey wore them whenever possible. "No," he said and met Casey's eyes.

Casey didn't ask to come in, and Dan didn't need to say any more; he still woke up with Casey beside him.


End file.
